


Under, Inside, Yes

by jemariel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blink and you'll miss it praise kink, Established Relationship, Feelings, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock freeform, M/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:43:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4579359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemariel/pseuds/jemariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a habit of sticking his hands under John's clothes.</p>
<p>Porn with feelings, absolutely no plot to speak of. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under, Inside, Yes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my second ever Sherlock fic. If you like it, find me on tumblr at marxian-harps.tumblr.com. I'm always looking for more friends in the Sherlock fandom :)
> 
> Fic isn't beta'd. All mistakes are mine to own.

Sherlock has a habit of reaching under John's clothes. Sometimes it's about sex, but usually it's just about intimacy, being as close to John as he can. If they're watching telly on the sofa, John will sit at one end and Sherlock sprawls over the other half with one long arm snaked all the way up the back of John's jumper so that his fingers pop out the neck and he can stroke the fine hairs at the back of John's skull. Or he'll reach up John's trouser leg as far as he can, wrapping his long fingers around John's calf muscle, occasionally squeezing.

John doesn't mind at all.

Or if they're out somewhere - not on cases; his focus is primarily elsewhere and he's too frantic to stay in one place long enough to get handsy - but if they're out to dinner or on a walk or going to the lab, one hand gravitates to the small of John's back, and he knows what's coming. It's a thumb, usually, or sometimes a pinky, just sneaking under to steal a reassuring touch of skin. Or sometimes it's his whole hand, freezing cold to the warmth of his back under his coat. Once when he was feeling possessive it had been fingertips snagging and tugging at the back of John's jeans. That had been a memorable evening.

And sometimes, just sometimes, when Sherlock is raw and vulnerable, when he's stuck at the bottom of a case he can't solve, when someone dies because he wasn't fast enough, when the world turns it's back on him and calls him freak without knowing any better... Then John sits closer in the cab and Sherlock's long body seems unbearably small. He grips John's hand too tightly and John lets him, but it isn't enough. He needs under, needs inside, and so he shifts his grip to John's cuff. He turns his body, left hand to left wrist, and works his fingers under as far as he can, letting them rest on the hidden skin of John's forearm. He sighs.

"You ok?" John whispers.

Sherlock can't decide the answer to that question, so he just nuzzles his nose into the shoulder seam of John's jacket. It smells good there. A little bit like old wool, a little bit like rain, and a lot like John's hair. Sherlock breathes in deep and closes his eyes. Not enough. He scoots closer and his nose finds skin not covered by wool and cotton. He wonders if he could get his nose under John's collar. Worth a try.

"Hey!" John is giggling, but brings it up short. Not an appropriate time to giggle. Sherlock wishes he wouldn't stop. "Want to wait til we get home, maybe?"

Home. That will be lovely. But it's almost 20 minutes away, so Sherlock shakes his head and starts burrowing again. His hand leaves its post at John's cuff in favor of sliding across John's chest under the jacket. But it's cotton flannel, not skin. So he undoes one of the buttons and worms his hand further inside - and finds more cotton. Vest. Of course. He growls.

"Why do you wear so many layers?"

John huffs. "We don't all look like sex gods in just a tight silk shirt, y'know."

That idea - of John in one of Sherlock's shirts - makes him purr and he grips at John's chest. "You never know. Have you tried?"

He knows John is smiling even though he can't see his face, can feel it in his breathing and how he nuzzles back on Sherlock's head. He grips Sherlock's arm tighter to his chest. They stay like that, and when they reach Baker Street Sherlock only lets go because he knows that when they get upstairs he can have more of it.

Inside, Sherlock pulls John by the wrist straight to their bedroom. Their coats get lost in the kitchen somewhere, shoes toed off in the hallway. Once safely ensconced in their sanctuary, Sherlock pulls John into his arms and his nose finds the spot just under his collar again. Wool and rain, John, old spice and skin. Sherlock's fingers are on shirt buttons and his mouth opens to taste the delectable scent. He hears John's sharp inhale at the first touch of tongue to his neck, feels his chest expand. God, he needs this. He needs *inside.*

The shirt is open and off. Muscled arms, the edge of scar tissue, tufts of chest hair. Better. Sherlock runs his hands up John's belly and chest under his vest, tangling wiry hair in his fingers and skimming over John's cool flat nipples. John's breathing goes ragged, so Sherlock repeats that caress, over and over until his nipples are tight contracted buds. Then his hands slide around and down to the warm smooth lumbar curve, under trousers and pants, pulling at John's buttocks.

"All yours, Sherlock," John breathes in his ear. Sherlock's moan is a living thing escaping its cage. John's hands run hot up his arms, one cupping his shoulder and the other tangling in his hair, pulling just so. He guides Sherlock to the bed gently, pushing and pulling so Sherlock barely notices he's moving until his calves hit the bed and he's sitting down on it. Lovely. His new height gives him certain advantages, and he has John's fly open on moments. He's not fully hard yet, but he's working on it, and the soft-firm bulge in his pants is a very fine pillow for Sherlock's cheek. He inhales. The John scent is concentrated here, musky and human. He opens his mouth and lets his breath and tongue warm the fabric.

"Ah!" John gasps, then hisses. "God. I'm trying to undress you too, you tart."

He is. Sherlock's focus had been entirely on John, on getting under his clothes, under his skin, that he hadn't noticed the hands tugging futilely at his shirt. Now John is pushing him further up on the bed and - oh - straddling Sherlock's thighs, he loves it when John does this. He tilts his face up and is rewarded with an open-mouthed kiss that makes his head spin. The number of people Sherlock has kissed can be counted on his hands with fingers to spare, and none of them have been taller than him. He didn't realize until the first time John sat in his lap, reversing their height ratios, just how dizzying it was to look up to be kissed, how thrilling. It made his heart skip to a canter and his breath come short. 

But now John is laying him down, undoing his buttons and ridding him of his shirt with efficiency. "You are so gorgeous," John breathes. "I can't... I still can't get over how beautiful you are." He's mouthing along the skin of Sherlock's belly under his ribs, and Sherlock arches up into the heat of his lips. John worships every inch of skin between rib cage and pelvis before ridding him of his trousers, pants, and socks. Sherlock is indecently hard, cock flushed pink and arching to the right of his navel. His hips give a little questing thrust, but meet no resistance. John has stood up, dropping the rest of his own clothing. Sherlock almost regrets the loss, not being able to work them off himself. But not quite because now they are both completely nude and that is always an improvement.

"Scoot up," John directs, and Sherlock does, wiggling until he can rest against the pile of pillows at the headboard. John crawls after him, over him, swooping low to ghost his tongue up the underside of Sherlock's cock and wrap his lips around the head. Sherlock's hips stutter up to meet that maddening tongue and he pushes his fingers through his own hair to stop himself from grabbing onto John's head and pushing.

When John is back in kissing range, Sherlock can taste himself on John's tongue. Marvelous. Simply marvelous. He cradles John's head gently for a moment, but then his hands are roving everywhere he can reach, desperate for skin. They finally rest on John's arse. The skin there is cool, but warms quickly in his grip. He kneads, massages, reaches deep between the cheeks to where cool becomes hot and he spreads John wide. Yes. Inside. The tips of his fingers find John's opening and -

"Fuck, that's -" John is gasping, rutting down so that their cocks grind together. Then John is sitting up, the distance maddening but necessary as he reaches for the bedside table drawer. Sherlock occupies himself with worrying one nipple with his lips and teeth while John rummages. 

When John comes back he's panting into their kisses like there isn't enough air in the room. Sherlock knows the feeling. One of John's hands joins his own in exploring the tight pucker of his entrance, bringing glorious slick with it. One finger slips inside easily; Sherlock follows it with one of his own and drinks down John's answering groan. His hips - John's - are moving restlessly between the two stimuli, their cocks together and their hands. Sherlock slips in a finger from his other hand as well, so he has both middle fingers inside, rubbing John's slick internal walls in concert. That's when John's right arm trembles and with a muffled "oh fuck" his finger slips away from his arsehole so that he can brace himself on both hands. Sherlock purrs. Yes, yes, all mine, all for me, he thinks. Against all odds and beyond all reasonable expectation, this man belongs to him.

Then John is shifting, Sherlock encouraging him with the grip on his arse, lining him up with the tip of Sherlock's cock. John's hand is on his cock to keep him steady and apply more lubricant and then - and then -

Tight hot slick fuck YES, the wet slide of his cock into John's arse is EXACTLY what he needs. He can't help it: his hips thrust up into John's body and John, just as hungry for it, sits back and lets his own body weight drive him down. He's trembling, letting out a long string of curses and wordless moans. And then a laugh. A little breathy laugh that Sherlock cannot begin to comprehend but which is making his heart unfurl in aching, breathless joy.

"Jesus fucking Christ," John laughs. "I love that. I love you."

"John," is all Sherlock has to say in reply, low and broken.

Sherlock wants to stay right where they are, suspended in that perfect first moment for eternity. But his body is demanding that he move, thrust, and John is already shifting a little trying to find the perfect angle. He whimpers when he finds it - Sherlock can always tell when he finds it. So Sherlock gets his feet flat on the bed and pushes up into John's weight, and oh, Fuck. Glorious. 

"Sh-Sher... Sherlock..." John gasps in time with the roll of his hips, and Sherlock needs him impossibly closer. Not enough, never enough. He pulls himself up, wraps his arms around John's shoulders, pulls him down into a desperate kiss that is full of their moans and breath. He can drive his cock into John now, over and over and if he cants his hips just right he can still--

"FUCK oh Fuck yes that's perfect don't stop never ever stop" the filthy litany tumbles between them from John's lips, as if Sherlock could or ever would stop.

At least not until he has a better idea. John is small and strong, but Sherlock has the advantage of height and so it is fairly easy for him to flip John over on his back. Especially once John gets the idea and clings to him. There. God yes, perfect. He didn't even slip out. Now he has John caged under his arms, gazing up at him like he's some kind of deity. Sherlock doesn't want to disappoint.

"Tell me I'm brilliant," he purrs, and John's laugh is like gold.

"Your ego could power London," he says. Sherlock just gets his hands under John's knees, pulls up, starts to move again -- "Jesus fucking, yes, yes you are brilliant, amazing, fucking genius you are - Fuck" and then John is reduced to whimpers and whines as Sherlock drives into him over and over again. One of John's hands snakes down to palm his cock, which has lost a little rigidity but is nonetheless leaking copiously over his stomach. Sherlock is mesmerized. He wishes he could taste the slick, wants to ask if he can, but then John works himself back to full hardness and clenches down on Sherlock's cock. Not long now. Not long at ALL, and Sherlock has to distract himself with kissing and teething on John's nipples to keep from coming from the sight of John working his own cock, and beyond that, himself enclosed. 

No, not long at all.

He hears the change in John's breathing, the quickening gasps. He feels John's legs tighten around him and the hand he's using to touch himself speed up, shorten its strokes. Then John is fucking himself on Sherlock's cock in tight little spasms, biting his lips and clenching, his whole body clenching as he pulses over their bellies. God, that is all Sherlock needs. His orgasm almost takes him by surprise, pulled as he is away from his observation of John and back to his own flesh. He drives himself as deep as he can into John's body, gripping him tight with sweat-slick arms and burying his face in John's chest as he burns.

After that everything is haze for a few minutes. Somehow John gets his legs down and he gasps a little when Sherlock's softening cock slips out. Sherlock slumps to the side, pulling John with him. They probably fall asleep. Sherlock can't really tell how much time has passed when he next opens his eyes, and that ought to disturb him. But it doesn't. It doesn't because John is there, looking at him with a blurry little smile.

"Hey," he says, and his smile grows wider.

"Hello," Sherlock answers.

"Shower with me?"

"Can't move."

"You'll feel better."

"Impossible."

John laughs, then presses a lingering kiss to Sherlock's hairline. Sherlock watches him get out of bed slowly, favoring deliciously worked muscles and joints. Watches him pad around the room naked and unashamed, stretching his shoulders, finding a flannel and cleaning himself up indelicately. Watches him debate whether to call that clean enough and crawl back into bed with Sherlock or follow his instinct to wash away the sweat of the day and their activities before sleep.

"Go on," Sherlock says. "I'll catch up."

John smiles down at him, pets one hand down his hip, and moves off toward the bathroom.

Sherlock stretches in the sheets, content to lounge in his skin for a few moments longer. Content. Yes. That is the feeling that is rolling about inside him. Contentment and John. It's as if by being as close as possible to John he can bring John inside him instead of the other way around, can fill himself up with John until there's no room left for anything else. He curls in on himself to hold it all inside. It will fade, he knows. He will have bad days again. But John... John will always be there. 

He hears the shower start on the other side of the wall, and grins. John will always be there.

~end~


End file.
